Grave Matters
by ellenshipley
Summary: Some towns are quiet as the grave. Richie meets his match in Sunnydale. This takes place after the Highlander's Dark Quickening and during the early days of Buffy & the gang. I don't own the characters, I only borrowed them. Reviews appreciated. *Thanx! Fixed the spelling faux pas.*
1. Chapter 1

Richie Ryan killed the engine on his bike and coasted through the wrought iron gates to the park-like expanse beyond, wheels crunching on loose gravel. He rolled past the well-kept lawns of the enclosed community in silence. Not that he was concerned about waking the residents at such an ungodly hour. They were long past disturbing, deep in their eternal slumber. But Richie had acquired a healthy respect for cemeteries of late. He always made it a point to locate holy ground when he entered a new town, whatever the hour. This far past midnight, it might as well do double duty.

The bike rolled to a stop and Richie dismounted, pulling off his helmet. A slight breeze riffled over his severely shorn head. Jar-head short. But the gyrenes had nothing on Richie Ryan for vigilance. He made a slow three-sixty, taking in the lay of the land. Wide expanses of lawn, dotted with shade trees and the occasional edifice. One large mausoleum on a small rise drew his eye. Town benefactor, no doubt, still claiming homage, even in death. Most of the other graves were marked with less ostentation—the ubiquitous headstones and, on the more recent plots near the road, set-in plaques.

Richie had made a study of gravestones—a preoccupation if you hung around Immortals much. He knew houses of the dead in all their myriad fashions, from the standing crypts of Paris to the tasteful urn on the mantle piece. As far as cemeteries went, he preferred headstones—they made better windbreaks, for one thing. Besides, plagues seemed more like an afterthought than a monument. And they encouraged brevity.

"Short and sweet," he said out loud, his words sounding harsh even to his own ears. No room for an epitaph. Like what?_ Beloved student_–?

Richie shook the thought out of his head, swallowing the sour taste in his mouth. No sense dwelling on it. What's done was done. He was lucky. He still had his head. And he planned to keep it.

He picked out his berth for the night and wheeled the bike off the road and up onto the grass. He parked it at the feet of an angel, where it could lie hidden from view behind a wide wingspan, and he took his bed roll over to a gnarly oak. There was a nice hollow where roods broke the surface, and he spread his blankets for the night—what was left of it. These days he never slept more than four hours at a stint anyway. His midnight companion saw to that.

Richie took one final scan of the neighborhood. Quiet as the grave. A smile touched his lips, falling short of his ice blue gaze. Satisfied, he did one more thing before settling in for the night. He laid his clam-shell rapier by his side, close to hand.

* * *

It was always the same dream, only the characters would change to torment his psyche. Mako, Kristov, the bodies would change, but the head would remain the same. A Gorgon's head with writhing tendrils of dark hair and flashing, fathomless eyes of pure evil. But the countenance was always Mac's.

Duncan MacLeod, his former teacher and present nemesis. The one man he had trusted with his whole being. The only man who had made him feel safe. The man who had tried to take his head.

The dream unfolded with dread predictability: Richie on his knees in the dojo, slick with sweat, straining for air and bleeding from a dozen cuts. His rapier lay just out of reach, knocked from his useless fingers. And looming overhead, a maniac with a bloody sword.

Skunk-ripe fear filled his nostrils, constricted his throat, throttled any cry. His forehead burned with the brand of betrayal from those taunting lips where the monster had kissed him. But the eyes—they blazed with unbridled evil. He felt his hair wrenched back, his neck exposed for the final cut…

Demonic laughter ripped through his brain, obliterating thought, leaving only blank terror.

Then it came—one swift stroke. He felt nothing, but the room was listing, tilting, falling up and away. Ceiling and floor spun past his open eyes in a blur of light and dark. When the room settled, he could see someone's foot edge on. His foot.

His mouth was open on a scream, but the only sound that reached his ears was the shriek of lunatic laughter…


	2. Chapter 2

Richie bolted upright, clenching his sword in his fist. "Why, Mac?" he cried into the empty night, startling an own to flight. Sweat-soaked, he shivered, shaking from the spent adrenaline. The dream again. His midnight companion. Richie lay back on the hard ground, his chest heaving for air.

Holy ground. No one could touch him here. Not even the thing the Highlander had become. He was safe.

Until he relinquished his sanctuary with the morning light and reentered the Game. He was a full player now. He knew all the rules, including the most important one of all. There can be only one. He'd had his baptism of blood, and heaven help any Immortal who crossed his path.

Gradually his breathing returned to normal and he released his death-grip on his rapier. His lids grew heavy, his body craving sleep.

Just before he drifted off, he thought he heard the desperate scream of a tortured soul. An owl swooped from the black sky, talons splayed, wearing the face of Duncan MacLeod…

* * *

Three figures crept through the cemetery, the last two trailing the first who hunted ahead.

"Do you think this leash is going to hold the beast?" Xander asked his companion.

"It ought to. I just hope the wolf's bane really works." Willow replied, shaking her long hair out of her pixie face.

The dark haired boy stopped in his tracks. "You think it might not?"

Willow looked at the bunch of leaves in her fist and shrugged. "Giles thinks it will." Her tone was hopeful.

"Funny how he had something else to do in the library, though." He looked at the thin leather leash in his own hand and swallowed hard. Buffy was out there on her own, waiting for their help. "Let's collar this puppy."

Bravely they followed the Slayer across the top of the Hellmouth. They could just hear her whistling.

"Here boy!" Buffy called, whistling again. She clutched a hambone, trailing bits of meat and still-dripping grease from supper. "Here's a nice juicy bone—nice doggy." She waved the hammy bone in the air, wistfully thinking of a midnight snack—and hoping she wasn't going to be it. Where were Willow and Xander with those props?

A rustling drew her keen attention to the low brush near a crypt. Was that a whimper? Cautiously she moved closer.

"Here boy, here Wolfie," she crooned, holding the hambone out like a giant dog biscuit. The whimper turned into a low growl, which sent a shivery thrill through the Slayer. She smiled. "Attaboy, come here." Three quick whistles.

The bushes shook violently and a black and white blur leapt through the air, fangs dripping.

Buffy rammed the hambone into the beast's mouth as he landed on her, carrying them both backward, rolling end over end. Buffy held the snarling creature at arm's length, feeling the beast's hot, fetid breath on her face. It struggled to dislodge the bone, but it was stuck crosswise in its jaws. Drool and spittle flew everywhere.

"Yuck! Hurry up, guys, I'm drowning in drool here!"

Xander and Willow rushed up on the tableau. It looked a little like someone playing with an over-exuberant terrier puppy, and Xander clamped down on a smile.

"Pooch patrol to the rescue," he said, wading in and fastening the collar on the ferocious were-pup.

Feeling confined, the were-beast turned its murderous attentions on this new target as Xander leapt back with a yelp, dropping the leash.

Quick as a wink, Buffy had the leash in her own hands and kept the were-pup from attacking her friends. Frustrated, the beast went back to trying to dislodge the bone from his slavering mouth, but to no avail.

"Okay, Willow," Buffy said, hardly winded. "Let's have the wolf's bane."

Dutifully, Willow stepped forward with the shaking leaves. The pup took one whiff and whimpered pitifully. Emboldened, Willow inched closer, waving the leaves before her. The were-pup cowered, trying to bury its nose in its paws.

"It's working," Xander said, brightening. "Good old Giles."

The pup was on its back now, kicking frantically at the offending leaves in Willow's hand. She stood right over the wriggling mass, a tentative smile touching her lips.

"All right," Buffy said, winding the leash around her hand as she moved closer. "Now drop the leaves."

Willow did as directed, then sprang back in amazement as the herb worked its magic. The puppy writhed in a tangle of limbs and leash, yowling and choking on its own drool. Buffy dropped her end of the leash and stood back as smoke began to rise from the beast in its torment.

Gradually, the whimpers turned into sniffles, and the thrashing subsided to a quivering heap of scruffy boy.

"Wolfrum?" Willow called softly, recognizing her old baby-sitting charge in his normal form.

Red-rimmed eyes peered up at her through a tangle of black hair. "Are you going to kill me?" he stammered, wiping ham juice and dirt on his sleeve.

"Of course not," Buffy assured the frightened boy. She glanced up at the just-past-full moon. The boy wouldn't be any more trouble for awhile, she decided, releasing the collar. Just to be on the safe side though, she tucked a couple leaves of wolf's bane into his pockets as she helped him to his feet.

"But we can't have you attacking the neighbors' pets anymore," she chided.

"I'm sorry," he sniffed. "I couldn't help myself."

"There, there," said Willow, falling back into baby-sitter mode. "Of course you couldn't."

"Of course not," Xander echoed, then turned to Buffy. "Why not?"

She gave him one of her looks. "It's this place," she said, swiveling her head on her neck. "The Hellmouth. It's a bad influence on the—" She looked at the sniveling boy. "—the Cursed."

Willow brushed the dirty hair out of Wolfie's eyes, noticing the streak of white that hadn't been there before. "What can we do?"

"Well," Buffy mused, shaking her blonde hair back in a way that always gave Xander's heart a kickstart. "Didn't you say his folks were moving soon?"

Willow nodded. "In a couple weeks."

"Then that's it. When Wolfie leaves Sunnydale—"

"—He won't be influenced by the Hellmouth anymore," Xander finished for her, pleased that he'd gotten it before Willow, anyway. He hated being the last one to gat a clue in this group.

"That's terrific!" Willow said, smiling down at Wolfie, who sniffled, puzzled.

Buffy dropped to her knees beside the youngster. "You've got a family curse that turns you into a werewolf when the moon is full," she explained patiently. "But only if you stay here. There's a bad thing here that affects you. But you'll be all right when your parents move." As long as there wasn't another Hellmouth out there—there couldn't be two such places.

"But why isn't anyone else in the family affected?" Xander asked, recalling Wolfie's older sister in his chemistry class last year.

Buffy shrugged. "That's biology for your. Wolfie's got the were-gene, I guess."

"Then that means his parent must have it too," Xander glanced around nervously.

"Not necessarily," Willow assured him, and herself. "They could each have half a were-gene, or whatever."

"I don't think there are any more werewolves running around," Buffy said, sniffing the air with her heightened senses. "Wolfie's the only one. I'd've sensed another.

"Besides," she whispered over Wolfie's head. "Only pets were attacked. A larger werewolf would have attached people."

Xander swallowed. "Now there's a happy thought."

"We should get Wolfie home," Willow said, urging a sensible course.

"Good idea," Buffy said, handing the collar and leash back to Xander.

The boy looked sadly at the dog tags. "Poor Bowser," he said, pocketing the only thing left of his faithful old friend. Bowser never was much good in a fight.

"Meet you guys back at the library," Buffy called, heading off to make one last Slayer round. It paid to be cautious with the Hellmouth.

"Coming?" Willow asked, when Xander seemed lost in thought.

"Uh? Oh. No, you go on ahead." He jingled the dog tags absently. "I want to be alone for a bit."

"Oh sure," Willow agreed, aching for her friend's loss, but unable to put her halting feelings into words. "See you at Giles'," she said vaguely, raising her hand in a half-wave.

"Yeah, okay." Xander ambled slowly off in the opposite direction, his mind's eye seeing Bowser in happier days. His meander down memory lane took him deeper into the cemetery, somewhere in the vicinity of The Crypt, as the vampire-hunters called it. But some Power seemed to be looking after fools and children tonight, because there were no toothsome denizens hanging about the entrance to the Hellmouth.

But that wasn't quite the case farther on.


	3. Chapter 3

Xander ducked as an owl flew overhead, startling him out of his reverie. "Do I look like a rodent to you?" he called after the night hunter, brushing cobwebs and leaves out of his hair.

"I guess I do." Puzzled how they got in his hair, he took notice of his surroundings for the first time. "Forget the leaves—how did I get here?"

Spying The Crypt not too far off behind him, he shivered. If he was going to play vampire bait, he should bring the Slayer with him at least.

The front gates were nearby, and Xander headed off in that direction at a trot. His eyes on his goal, he failed to see the obstacle at his feet before he tripped over it.

Xander went flying over a giant tree root nd landed face first in the grass beyond, his feet draped over the offending root.

Then the root moved.

Xander gave a shout, rolling away and scrambling to his knees before he could fill his lungs again.

The root—or rather the man—sprang to his feet, brandishing a very wicked looking sword at phantom demons before he noticed Xander cowering in a heap.

"You! Get up!" the wild-eyed man hissed. Xander complied.

"Uh, un," he stammered, trying to keep a rubbery smile pasted on his face. "Don't mind me. Please."

The swordsman seemed to come to his senses, and his hard blue eyes narrowed as he gave the frightened boy a good long look. Satisfied about something, he whipped his sword out of sight behind his back.

"Sorry, buddy," he said, offering Xander a hand up.

Reluctantly, he took it, mildly surprised by the strength of the stranger's grip. He thought of the fencing class he'd goofed off through and now wished he hadn't.

"That's ok." Xander tried to laugh, but gave it up. "Just my big feet." He started backing away, hoping he wouldn't trip over a grave marker and be done for.

But the stranger just watched him go, making no more to skewer him with his big sheesh-kababber. When he thought it was safe to do so, Xander turned and sprinted for the gates.

Buffy and the others were never going to believe this one.

* * *

Richie watched the boy race away. So much for a quiet night's sleep. He slipped his sword away and ran a hand over his newly-shorn head. It still surprised him not to find a mass of strawberry blond curls up there. But it was time to move on, literally and figuratively in his life, and the old Richie was no more. No more soft curls, no more sloppy thinking. No more blind faith and gullible trust. Only hard edges. A leaner, meaner Immortal faced the world now. Ready for anything, and more than ready to dish it back.

"Maybe there's an all-night diner in this one-horse town," he said with a sour twist to his mouth.

He rolled up his bedding and loped over to his bike. When he had everything stowed, Richie fired up the engine and tooled out of the cemetery in racing form, sending the living denizens of the place to flight.


	4. Chapter 4

"He, um, had a sword you say?" Rupert Giles, mild-mannered librarian in fact and temperament, paced fretfully in his own library.

"Yes, Giles, for the third time, he had a sword," Xander said, rolling his eyes at the other two. Giles wasn't usually so dense. Even he could see something was bothering the Englishman.

"How peculiar," Giles said, stopping by the tea tray to spoon a fourth helping of sugar into his tea.

"Whoa, Giles. What gives?" asked Buffy. "Can we say sugar high?"

Giles looked at his cup and grimaced. "Oh dear," he said, setting it down and going back to pacing. "I'm sure it means nothing."

"Your sudden craving for sweets or the guy with the ginzu?" Buffy was still wired from the night's activities, but it was usually Giles who worked to calm her down, not the other way around.

"Hm? Oh, I see. The fellow with the sword." He twisted his fingers back and forth. "Probably a circus performer, temporarily separated from his, un, circus."

"Right, Giles," Buffy said.

"I don't know," Xander added. "He didn't act much like a clown if you ask me. And that sword looked too big to swallow."

"Rather like this theory." Buffy sniffed Giles' tea and drank it.

"Was he very big and scary?" Willow asked, frightened and thrilled by the tale.

"Very," Xander replied, glancing sideways to see if Buffy were similarly impressed. "Well, I guess you've faced worse," he said.

"But she's the Slayer," Willow said, tossing him a bone.

"Yeah, and we're the comic relief-slash-bait."

"Couldn't do it without you guys," Buffy grinned, giving them both a shoulder squeeze.

"Uh, what did it look like?" Giles asked, apparently losing a battle with himself.

"What did what—oh, the sword," Xander caught on. "Well, it was long and pointy—"

Buffy rolled her eyes. Willow's grew wider.

"Like the ones we used in gym class for fencing," he continued.

"A rapier. Go on." Giles was fascinated in spite of his efforts to the contrary.

"It had a kind of bell-shaped hand grip—"

"Clam-shell, yes."

Buffy and Willow exchanged glances. Giles was full of surprises.

"I didn't know you knew your buckle from your swash, Giles," Buffy teased her mentor/trainer.

"In my misspent youth," he said with vagueness, ducking his head to avoid her eyes directly.

No one seemed to notice because Willow had asked Xander to demonstrate the swordman's moves, and he was leaping about the library brandishing a yardstick.

"Well. That's all very interesting, uh, students. But I think it's rather late, even for you bunch."

"Yes," said Willow, stifling a yawn. "And tomorrow we have a history test."

"Nobody told me," Xander complained, clueless as ever.

Buffy danced her way to the library door. "I could go all night. Slaying gets me pumped."

"But we didn't slay anyone tonight," Willow corrected her.

Giles listened until their voices faded down the hall. Then he resumed pacing in earnest. After all these years, it looked like his past was finally catching up to him. There was another Immortal in Sunnydale.


	5. Chapter 5

"Uh oh," Willow warned. "Here comes Cordelia."

They were between classes.

"Shoot me now," Xander said, ducking behind an open locker. "I don't deserve to live."

"What?" Willow said, looking from Xander to the fast approaching Cordelia.

"There he is. Don't let him crawl away." Cordelia swept into their presence with all the conscious demeanor of a queen bee.

"What do you want with Xander?" Willow demanded, sticking up bravely for her friend.

Cordelia swept pasted her and paused before the offending locker. "Do not ever copy from my paper again. It's too demeaning." She swept on before Xander could muster a squeak.

"Did you do that?" Willow asked softly. "You could have copied from mine."

"That would have been too demeaning even for me," Xander replied. "I pick your brains already as it is."

"I don't mind."

Buffy breezed up. "Hello, fellow fiend-fighters. Seen Giles this morning?"

"He wasn't in the library during study hall," Willow said.

"That's odd." Xander climbed out of the locker. "Giles is Mr. Reliable."

"Exactly," Buffy said, nodding. "So where do you think he is?"

"Sick?" Willow suggested.

"Nah. Giles never gets sick. Besides, I called his home number and nobody answered."

"He did seem agitated last night," Willow said. "About that swordsman of yours," she said to Xander.

He nodded. "So he did. Why do you suppose?"

"I don't know," Buffy said. "But knowing Giles, there's something to this guy with the sword. I think we'd better find out all we can about him."

"How?" Willow asked, eager to help nonetheless.

"Well, we could start with Giles' stacks. There must be something in there about swords and cemeteries. It's a start."

"And I could search the net," Willow said, brightening at the prospect.

"Good." Buffy smiled. "Let's get going."

"Uh, guys. What'll I be doing?" Xander was used to being overlooked in the brains department, but he was up for all the menial jobs.

Buffy thought. "You could try all of Giles' usual haunts. See if he's at Miss Calender's , or—"

"Yeah, not a big list, is it." But Xander could handle it.

They split up, planning to meet later in the library.


	6. Chapter 6

Giles was out of his element on a ranch. He wasn't dressed for the muck of a stable yard. He stepped fastidiously over a steaming pile of—something—wrinkling his nose at the smell. Nevertheless, he had to speak to Tompkins. Give him the word there was a headhunter in town and let him choose for himself: fight or flight.

His own choice was clear. He pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and pressed on. In times past, he would have picked up stakes and moved on, not risking an encounter with a hostile Immortal. But now things were different. He had the Chosen One to school and train. His obligation outweighed the danger to his own head.

Giles rubbed his neck, swallowing hard. His collar felt constricting. He'd grown quite attached to his head over the years. He didn't want to lose it now, but he didn't have the option. As long as Buffy lived, he would be her Watcher.

He chuckled at that particular choice of word. It had seemed inspired somehow. He enjoyed calling himself a Watcher, knowing that somewhere out there, there was a Watcher for him. Or he assumed there was.

Did Watchers still watch? he wondered absently. He'd been out of the Game for so long, he wasn't entirely sure.

But the rules of the Game remained the same. There can be only one. There was always someone ready and eager to claim another Quickening on the path to the Prize. Giles never expected to claim it for himself. But he rather thought he'd hang on a little while longer all the same.

But now that didn't seem likely. A stranger in a cemetery, carrying a fighter's sword was just too much of a coincidence to ignore.

Giles had his hand on the paddock gate when the violent sensation hit him. Knocked to his knees by a stray bolt of ethereal lightning, he knew he was too late.

The stranger had found Tompkins. And Giles had no illusions which of them would be walking away with his head intact. He said his silent good-byes to the crusty old Immortal and beat a hasty retreat.

It would never have occurred to Giles—not if he lived to be a thousand—to stick around and rid himself of his problem while the stranger was too weak to defend himself. It just wasn't done in Giles' musty, dusty bookish world.

* * *

Richie shook off the last tendrils of the Quickening as the fog in his brain began to clear. Damn fool. Who ever heard of fighting a sword with a pitchfork? He rubbed his side where the holes were already healing. He had to admit the old coot was pretty handy with his chosen weapon form. But he really was no match for a young Immortal. A wonder he stayed alive this long.

He'd better clean up his mess and clear out. Difficult to get rid of a body in daylight. Richie picked up the pitchfork and began piling forkfuls of hay onto the body. That would have to do until after dark, when he could do a more thorough job.

The thought occurred to him to just hop his bike and keep riding. Let the heads fall where they may. But one thing kept him in town, at least for another day.

Just for a moment, before he took the farmer's head, he felt the tingle of another Immortal. Two of them in a burg this size? Amazing.

Richie stuck the pitchfork in the newly made haystack and wiped his brow. Nope. He didn't mind wasting one more day in Sunnydale. Not if it got him another easy Quickening.

These yokels were ripe for the picking. No challenge, really, but then who gives a fig?

Not Richie Ryan, Headhunter.


	7. Chapter 7

Xander didn't dare breathe. Or the madman might catch sight of him and— He swallowed hard, trying not to think what the madman might do. What he'd already done was bad enough. Poor old Gus Tompkins. He yelled at the kids who cut across his fields, but he never hurt a fly. Now he lay in two pieces under a pile of hay, and Xander was the only one in the world who knew it.

Well that wasn't strictly true. Giles must have seen it too. He looked around. Where had he gone? Off to get the police? Maybe that's what Xander should do.

But something told him the sheriff wasn't going to believe the part about the fireworks. He didn't believe it, and he'd seen it.

For that matter, what was Giles doing out her in the first place? Xander had trailed him here, wondering. And now he was even less sure of the reason. Reason had nothing to do with cutting a man's head clean off, or with the fountain of fire that had poured out of it. His hairs still vibrated with static electricity.

He was wondering what he should do when the madman decided for him. He was leaving, but at a pace Xander couldn't follow. He watched the bike disappear down the country lane, then trudged dejectedly back toward the library.

There was always the hope that Giles would return ahead of him. Xander had a couple hundred questions to ask the wayward librarian.

* * *

Willow hurried along the corridor, arms laden with printouts. The topmost sheet peeled off, taking its cellmates with it in a concatenated break for freedom. Willow tried valiantly to corral the escapees, but only managed to obscure her view of the corridor. This proved fatal—in figurative sense.

She plowed headlong into a tall, lean stranger with ice water eyes.

"Oh!" she said, dropping the rest of the printout in a pile of paper ribbon.

Rickie smiled. "I'm sorry," he said, bending to help the shy pixie of a girl fanfold the printout back into shape. She reminded him a little of Donna—or maybe it was Kate—he knew a lot of nice girls, once upon a time. Before the Game turned his life inside out and Mac hung him out to dry.

"Can I help you carry that?" he offered, seeing her struggle to master it with little success.

"Oh," she said again, then increased her vocabulary to, "Sure. I mean, thank you."

Richie knew that gaze too. Upperclassman hero worship. To this slip of a girl, he was a god—or at least an older member of the opposite sex, which amounted to the same thing in her limited experience. Or so he surmised from his own experience.

He tucked the printout under one arm and twined her arm in the other. "Which way?" he asked, gracing her with a real smile. A rare thing these days in his world.

She responded with a tentative smile of her own. Careful old son, he told himself. Such smiles were fragile as butterflies, and just as short-lived.

"To the library," she said, nodding down the hall to a set of doors with round windows.

Richie started for the doors, when he felt it again. The on-again, off-again sensation he'd been trailing all afternoon, since he'd left the farmer. His smile wavered slightly, as he located the source of the Immortal ping. It was coming from the library.

This was not the time for a confrontation. Not with a mortal witness in tow. He deposited her on the threshold of the library and handed her the printout, now neatly stacked.

With a tip of an imaginary hat, Richie quit the scene.

Willow watched the handsome young man retreat, sighing wistfully. Buffy had her Angel. Why couldn't she have this one? But the thought that he too might be a vampire sent cold shivers down her spine. She was better off with Xander.

Now if Xander would only see it that way.


	8. Chapter 8

"Giles? Earth to Giles—" Buffy tilted her head at the funny look on the librarian's face.

"What? Oh yes." Giles blinked, removing his immaculate glasses to polish them yet again. "I mean, no," he said.

"But Giles," Buffy said, irritation rising in her voice. It wasn't every day she volunteered to bury herself in the stacks, and even fewer days when she actually hit pay dirt. "Why can't we investigate these 'Immortals?'"

"Because…" he had to think on that one. "Because they simply aren't relevant to our current problem," he said, dropping the subject.

"Of course they are, Giles." Buffy hefted one of the musty old tomes she'd found in a secret stash, flexing muscles to do so. "It says here they hang around cemeteries, carry big swords, and cut people's heads off. I'd call that relevant to the people without their heads."

"What I meant was, it simply doesn't apply to Xander's Imm…swordsman. We have absolutely no proof that he's one of those creatures. And I must insist you drop it."

Before she could reply, he headed for the door, nearly bowling Willow down in the process. Her armload of printouts fluttered to the library floor.

"Terribly sorry," he muttered, not stopping to pick them up.

"How odd," Willow said, as the door close don Giles' back.

"You don't now the half of it," Buffy said. She stooped to help her friend with the printouts. "Giles practically ordered me to stop investigating these creatures called Immortals. They cannot die—"

"—Unless you take their heads. I know! I found out all about them on the net. I sort of tapped into this secret organization that watches them."

"Yeah, I found something like that too. One of their Chronicles."

Willow looked excited. "You did? Where?"

In Giles' stacks—hidden pretty good too. I don't think he wanted anyone to find it."

"You don't think he's one of those Watchers do you?" Willow looked thoughtful.

"Well," Buffy said, thinking too. "He's my Watcher, anyway. I don't think that's the same thing though."

"Where's Xander, by the way?" Willow asked. "Wasn't he supposed to be looking for Giles?"

"I'd say he flunked that assignment."

"I hope he isn't in any trouble," Willow said. "I mean, we've seen Giles, but no Xander." Her eyes grew wide. "But I did see someone else. A tall guy with really short hair."

"Xander's swordsman? Where?"

"Here in the hall! He helped me with my printout." They stared at each other. "You don't suppose he's one of those Immortal guys, do you?"

Buffy pondered that one. "Well if he is, I'd like to know what he's doing outside Giles' library. And why Giles couldn't wait to get out of here."


	9. Chapter 9

This Immortal was on to him. Richie was certain of it by the way he kept just at the edge of his senses. He was either very good, or very scared.

Richie was betting on the latter. Or why leave the old farmer his head for so long? That was sloppy at the very least.

No, this—librarian—was no threat to him. He probably didn't own a sword either. These yokels were pathetic. Almost a shame to take their Quickenings.

But Richie Ryan knew no shame. Not since his so-called teacher scared the piss out of him. He vowed that night that no Immortal would ever get him on his knees again. He'd die on his feet, but preferably, not at all.

So far, he'd kept that vow. And he'd had Quickenings too numerous to remember. Except at night, when nothing escaped memory. They paraded before him, each wearing the face of Duncan MacLeod. It was getting to be quite a crowd.

But no matter how may of them he killed in his waking hours, they always got the better of him in his dreams. In his fertile mind, Mac would always be the victor. So he sliced them down by day and paid for his hubris by night. He didn't see a way out.

This librarian was either clever or lucky, but Richie was tiring of the cat and mouse game. And he was getting hungry. He decided to break off the hunt for a quick bite at a local diner. The quarry wouldn't wander far. Richie could always pick up the trail at the library again. He was bound to return to his musty old lair.

Richie could continue the hunt tonight. There would be a gibbous moon.

* * *

"Xander! Where have you been?" Willow latched onto him as he entered the library.

"Quick, there's no time," was all he said. "Giles is in danger. There's this maniac with a sword stalking him all over town."

"I knew it," they said in unison. Xander blinked. "You knew?"

"You're right," Buffy said. "We haven't much time. But I have to know: was Giles carrying a sword too?"

"What? Are you crazy? Why would he have a sword?"

"Because he's one of them, silly," Willow said, shoving the printout and chronicle his way. "An Immortal."

"We don't have time for any of that," Buffy said, dashing for the stacks. "I think I know where it is."

"Where what is?" Xander was confused. "And what's an Immortal?"

Willow filled him in on their finds until Buffy returned ripping the wrapping off a long, thin parcel. "Here it is," she said, proudly, holding out a sword. This one was much different from the other fellow's. For one thing, it had a cross-guard, and there were strange squiggles running down the blade.

"Runes," Xander said, recognizing them from a roll playing game he used to play. Back when he played games.

"Okay, let's go." Buffy took the point, in both uses of the word.

Willow paused in the doorway. "C'mon, Xander. Giles is in trouble."

"Isn't that where I came in?" He hurried after. "Wait. You don't know where to go." He had to run to catch up with the Slayer and her companion, just disappearing around the corner of the school. H didn't want to lose them in the twilight.


	10. Chapter 10

Giles knew he was delaying the inevitable. But he had made up his mind how it would play out. He had gone back to the stacks for his sword, but seeing Buffy reminded him how futile that would be. He was no match physically for the Slayer. He was certainly in no shape to face another Immortal—especially one in the top of his form. No, if he couldn't talk his way out of it, then he'd lose his head.

He knew it had to happen sometime. But now that the time was upon him, he felt understandably reticent. And so he meandered, putting off what he wasn't ready to face.

Finally, even the headhunter got tired and broke off the hunt. When Giles spotted him entering a diner, his own stomach began to growl.

"Traitor," he scolded. But he was getting peckish. And frankly, he was getting tired of running away. Giles stood and faced his enemies. Or he used to, at any rate.

Girding his loins, in a figurative sense, Giles strode through the door of the diner and up to his opponent.

"I understand you're looking for me," he managed to say without squeaking.

The hard youth stared at him over a burger plate. "That's right. You want me now?"

"Oh no," Giles said, observing the courtesies. "Please finish your meal. In fact, if you don't mind, I'm rather hungry myself." He indicated a seat at the counter near the Immortal.

"Knock yourself out," the Immortal said, turning back to his meal.

"I'm Rupert Giles, the librarian at the high school," Giles said. Conversation was his only weapon, and he wasn't averse to wielding it early.

"Richie Ryan," was all the young man said.

Giles ordered the blue plate special and hot tea. "Ryan. That's an Irish name."

"I suppose. I didn't know my parents."

Giles tried another tack. "You're rather young, aren't you? I don't mean chronologically—"

"I know what you mean. I may be young, but I'm seasoned. And I had a good teacher." Something must have tasted bad from the face he made. "MacLeod. You wouldn't know him."

"But I do." Giles took hope for the first time since sitting down to sup with the devil. "Connor and I go way back."

"Not Connor. The other one: Duncan." He barely got the name out.

Giles didn't know the name, but he tried not to sound crestfallen. "I don't suppose he'd be a relative, given our peculiar circumstances." His dinner arrived and he ate it mechanically.

"I'd like to convince you not to take my head," he tried not to sound pathetic.

"Not a chance." He was adamant on that point anyway. A real collector.

"Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained."

Ryan snorted. "And a stitch in time saves nine. Forget the chit-chat, Pops. You're wasting your breath."

Giles bristled at the rude epithet. "There's no cause to get unpleasant. You're awfully cynical for one so young."

"I had a hard life. What's it to you, anyway? You'll get your chance, just like any other. Maybe you'll take my head."

Giles schooled his breathing. He didn't want to get indigestion on top of everything else. "I've always believed the pen to be mightier than the sword. That's why I left the Game and entered the scholastic profession. I like to feel I followed a higher calling."

Ryan laughed out loud. "That's a good one, Pops. But you'd better sharpen your quills, 'cause I'm going to put that little theory to the test."

"The name is Giles, young man." He sat stiffly polishing his glasses. He could see the other Immortal perfectly well without them, but after a couple centuries they had become a habit. "I'll thank you to use it, or not at all."

"Okay, Giles."

A small victory. Giles dared to hope for more. And with that hope, his appetite returned and he ate heartily.

"I, uh, can't help thinking something pretty horrible must have happened to you—fairly recently, if I'm correct?"

Richie slammed his coffee cup down hard enough to slosh on the counter. "Listen, Giles. I don't want to talk about it, ok? It's none of your damn business."

Struck a chord. Giles' heart leapt in excitement. "You see," he went on, seemingly oblivious to the agitation he was generating. "I'm a teacher, and I can't help sensing you are in crisis. Perhaps a crisis with your mentor, this Duncan MacLeod—"

The young Immortal shoved his plate away, half finished. "That's it. You want to keep talking, I'll take your head right here."

"In front of all these people?" Giles was nonplussed. He paused, fork in midair, envisioning the scurry of activity. "That would be quite a show."

Richie got himself under control with an effort. He couldn't let the old fool goad him into a mistake. Mac had taught him better than that—

—Mac, looming over him, grinning evilly, the sword beginning its perfect arc—

Giles put his fork down. "Is something the matter?"

"Nothing," Richie managed to get through his constricted throat, when he could finally speak. Damn. That was the first time it had happened while he was still awake, and it scared the shit out of him.

"You're white as a ghost," Giles insisted.

"Forget it, I said," he hissed through his teeth, fumbling for his wallet. The guy was good, he'd give him that. Knew how to push all his buttons. But it wasn't going to work. Not on the new Richie Ryan.

He slapped some bills on the table. "Let's go," he said, getting to his feet.

It was Giles' turn to go pale. He placed his knife and fork across his plate neatly. "I, uh, would like to put my affairs in order, if you wouldn't mind." He kept his voice modulated by sheer will. "I have a—special charge. I need to see to her welfare."

Richie started to shake his head.

"I won't be long," Giles said, turning to face his first challenger in a hundred years. He met the hard, cold gaze with calm acceptance of his fate. "I'll meet you anywhere you like in, say, two hours?" That should give him enough time to contact his replacement and get a few instructions down on paper. Buffy might be on her own for a little while.

Richie's stare bore through the guy, but he didn't flinch. "Okay," he said, mentally picturing the town. "I've got to dispose of that farmer anyway, before I blow town. I'll meet you on the road outside the cemetery. Two hours—or I'm coming after you. There's nowhere you can go that I can't follow."

Giles nodded understanding. "Yes, um. Thank you." He pushed his glasses up on his nose out of habit. He'd always meant to break himself of that habit. Now it looked as if he was finally going to do just that.

The Immortal walked away without a backward glance. As he watched him go, Giles couldn't help thinking that all he really needed was a good teacher.


	11. Chapter 11

"That's him!" Xander and Willow said in unison. The three of them ducked into a booth, out of view.

Unbelievably, Giles was having dinner with the fellow. It didn't look very cordial. Buffy strained her ears to pick up their conversation.

"What's he saying?" Xander couldn't stand it any longer.

"Shhh," Buffy hissed. "They're talking about taking heads…." She filled them in on the grizzly conversation.

The angry young man got up to leave.

"Okay, I've heard enough," Buffy said, getting into Slayer mode.

"Me too," said Willow, and Xander nodded. "What do we do now?"

"We need that chronicle thing," she said to Willow. "It's got some sort of ritual in it."

"Right." Willow could handle that.

"And me?" Xander asked.

"Follow Ryan," Buffy said. "We need to know where he goes."

Xander swallowed. "I think I know where he'll be. Unless he's been busy, the 'body' he mentioned is old Tompkins'."

"Good. We have two hours, people." Buffy slid down in the vinyl seat as the Immortal passed their booth. He moved like a hunter, striking a matching chord in Buffy. Slayer to slayer, she understood him on a gut level she didn't want to think about.

"We'll need somewhere quiet, and isolated, to perform this Immortal ritual," Willow said, ever practical.

Buffy thought for a minute. "The library's too public—"

"Not to mention flammable," Xander said, thinking of those lightning bolts.

"How about the cemetery?" Willow said.

"Our home away from home," Xander quipped.

"Why not?" Buffy agreed. "That solves the problem of what to do with the body afterward." Disposing of vampires was never a problem, as they self-destructed and left no messy residue.

"What about Giles?" Willow whispered, watching the forlorn back of their good friend and stalwart guide through many a hair-raising occurrence on the Hellmouth.

"Leave Giles to me." Buffy had a plan, but she didn't think Giles would approve of it.

* * *

Buffy waylaid Giles on his way to the library. "Hi. What's new?" She sounded her usual, cheery self.

"Oh, Buffy," he said, coming back from a million miles away. He couldn't bring himself to turn her away, but he must. "I haven't got time right now—"

"I know." She danced along side of him, juices pumping. "You have a date with the sword guy."

That made him slow his pace a moment. "What an absurd idea." he said, trying to deny it. He must get her to leave, before something went wrong. The Immortal was a threat to Buffy and the others as long as Giles lived to tempt him. Afterward, he'd move on to greener hunting grounds.

"In two hours." Buffy went on as if he hadn't spoken.

Giles stopped with his hand on the library door. "You were eavesdropping. I'm disappointed in you, Buffy."

"No, you're not," she smiled. "You think I'm pretty special. And you're kind of special to me too, Giles. That's why I can't let you meet this Immortal. He'll only take your head."

Giles pushed through the door and let it swing closed behind them. "I know," he said bravely, making his way to his desk by rote. "But it can't be helped."

"Yes it can," Buffy said, trying to stand where he would look at her. "I can take his head first."

Giles whipped around with surprising quickness and took her by the shoulders. "Promise me you won't interfere, Buffy. It's not your fight. It's mine."

Buffy stared up at his face contorted with emotion. "And just what were you planning to fight with?" she asked. "This?" She stepped back and drew his sword from behind her back.

"Where did you find that," he demanded.

"You should know, Giles. You hid it in the stacks."

His shoulders sagged. "And I meant it to stay hidden," he said, slumping onto his desk.

Buffy's cheeks flared with anger. "You were going to let the misbegotten creature chop your head off! Without a fight."

"What' the use in a fight you can't win?" he said, voicing the thoughts that had haunted him ever since the stranger's arrival in Sunnydale.

"You can say that to me?" Buffy was just getting started. "After all the hopeless causes you've sent me out to face? Oh, that's rich, Giles."

She paced the floor before his desk, then wheeled on her mentor. "That's the coward's way out," she said harshly.

Giles looked up from polishing his glasses. "You really think so? I wondered myself—"

She let him mull it over for himself, setting his sword on the desk beside him. He fingered its grip, running his fingers lovingly don the line of runes.

"It's been so long, though," he said. "I've forgotten more than I can remember."

"It's just like riding a bike," she said. "You never really forget."

"I suppose you could be right."

It was working. Buffy could see the wheels begin to turn in his mind, changing sure defeat into possible victory. A glimmer of hope that meant a will to live.

That's all she wanted to see. Walking quietly around the desk, she picked up the massive dictionary and brought it down on Giles' head with all her Slayer force.

He crumpled to the floor without a sound. She almost panicked when she saw all the blood, but she reminded herself that Immortals couldn't be killed any way but one.

She picked up his sword and headed for the door. They died when you cut their heads off. And that's just what she had in mind for one tough customer with a sword of his own.

Where he was all alone, she had her companions to help her. Giles didn't have anything to worry about. Together they'd rid the world of one Richie Ryan.


	12. Chapter 12

The waning moon was climbing the night sky by the time Richie pulled the last of the hay out of his collar. He stepped back to give his handiwork a critical eye. Unless you knew where to look, the Immortal's grave was indistinguishable from its surroundings. Just another patch of scrub.

He popped the kinks in his back with satisfaction. No one could fault Richie Ryan on his cleanup. He looked at his wristwatch—time to go. He didn't want to keep Giles waiting.

But there was someone else waiting for him when he pulled up in front of the cemetery. Richie reached for his rapier, but he recognized the pixie with the printout problems from the afternoon. What was she doing way out here? She flagged him to a stop within sight of the wrought iron gates.

Chivalry reared its ugly head, if only for a moment, and Richie dropped his guard. It proved his undoing.

* * *

"Here he comes." Xander ran back to where the others were preparing a welcome for the young Immortal.

"Good," said Buffy, already revving her engine in neutral.

Willow clutched the large, ragged tome to her chest and nodded uncertainly.

Xander chucked her under the chin with a playful fist. "Heads up, Willow. You're on."

Her eyes grew wide and she looked as if she wanted to sink into the ground. But she nodded again.

"You'll do fine," Buffy said, pushing her out of the shadows to stand all alone on the edge of the blacktop.

They could hear the bike engine clearly now, and then it rounded the bend and was upon them. Buffy moved silently through the shadows and was gone. Xander cast around for a hefty stick, thinking home run. Willow stood all alone in the wash of the bike headlight, eyes like saucers.

"Hi," said the young man from the library corridor. "What are you doing here?" He killed the engine, dousing the light. But Ryan had his eyes on Willow, still visible in the moonlight.

Xander took his cue and charged the biker, swinging his Sunnydale slugger. The Immortal reacted before Xander was halfway to the bike, ducking and drawing his sword on the fly. Xander scrambled to a halt, slipping on the gravel scree, and dropped the stick.

"You again—" The Immortal advanced on him menacingly, wearing the same ice blue stare of the night before. Once more Xander was the target of his murderous intentions. He couldn't make his feet move. He could only shake like a reed in a sou'wester.

But the Immortal stopped suddenly, distracted. He cocked his head as if he were listening for something.

The Slayer struck. She seemed to materialize out of thin air, landing a flying kick to the back of the Immortal's head. He stumbled forward, dropping his sword, but he gained his footing and turned to face his new assailant.

Buffy danced in with another kick, but it glanced off his shoulder as Ryan feigned left. He countered with a punch that sent Buffy flying back. She landed heavily on her bottom.

Ryan turned on Xander, fists cocked. Xander took an involuntary step backwards and slipped on the stick he'd dropped. He went down in a flail of arms and legs. Willow rushed to his side, staring her defiance up at the Immortal.

By now Buffy was back in action, and Ryan turned in time to catch another stylish boot heel in the face. The Slayer followed up with a roundhouse that sent the Immortal stumbling sideways, losing his footing on the loose gravel.

Without his sword, the stranger was no match for the Slayer. She drove him through the wrought iron gates and further into the cemetery. Each blow left him more dazed and confused than the last, unable to keep his bearings. He never got in another punch.

She kept it up until he lay face first in the loam of a freshly dug grave, unwilling or unable to get up.

"Is he dead? Willow asked, staring in horror at the prostrate form at their feet.

"No, only unconscious," Buffy said, slightly winded from her workout. "But we'd better work quickly, before he comes around. Xander, give me a hand."

They dragged the helpless Immortal to the place they'd prepared for the ritual and dumped him on a slab of granite lying flat on the grass. Tomorrow it would be a tombstone, but tonight it would have to serve for a chopping block.

Everything was prepared, as best as Willow could determine from the confusing entries in the chronicle. "I wish Giles were here," she said again. "I don't know if I'm getting this right." She sat cross-legged on the grass with the huge book open in her lap. The light from a pen flashlight fell on the faded pages.

"I'm sure it will work," Buffy assured her, crossing her fingers. It if didn't, they were going to have a very angry Immortal on their hands. She hefted the sword, and then Giles', taking a few practice swings in the air. Did it matter which one she used?

Xander was busy pegging Ryan's hands and feet spread eagle to the ground all around the slab. He used stakes from the stock Buffy always kept handy for emergencies. You never knew what you'd run into on the Hellmouth.

The unconscious man's head fell back over the edge of the grave stone and his mouth hung open. Glottal sounds issued from it occasionally, punctuating the otherwise silent night.

Xander double checked his knots. "Once a boy scout, always a boy scout.," he said, giving a tug on the ropes.

Okay," Buffy said, deciding on Giles' sword. "Let's do it."

"No," Willow piped up. "I think he has to be awake. Otherwise he wouldn't hear the ritual words." That much seemed clear from the chronicle. "They always issue a kind of challenge."

They looked at each other, then at the snoring Immortal.

"Okay. We'll wait." Buffy stuck Giles' sword into the ground at the head of their do-it-yourself guillotine and plopped onto the grass beside her two faithful companions.


	13. Chapter 13

Giles came back with a wrenching start. He'd forgotten how painful it could be. It must have been fifty years at least since he had last died.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, holding his pounding head in one hand. It was still sticky with blood, but the wound had already healed. The mess on the library floor would need quick attention to forestall equally messy questions. Giles knew the drill. Stumbling to the utility closet, he got out the mop and bucket and set to work on the rapidly cooling pool of blood.

He worked fast, getting every drop and smudge. The floor tiles hadn't seen this much attention in years. And all the while he worked, he pondered one question: Why, Buffy?

Buffy, of all people. He couldn't believe she had killed him. She was the last person he would have expected to turn on him. She was the Chosen One, his sworn charge. He had pledged his life to helping her, preparing her, guiding her in the difficult course that lay ahead of her as the Slayer. And now she had slain him.

For the first time in nearly a century, Rupert Giles doubted his own chosen path. He had long ago decided that being Immortal was pointless if you didn't actually accomplish something useful in all that time. So he had put down the sword and picked up a book…and another, and another.

And in all those books, he found the glimmerings of a vaster universe. If there were Immortals, might there be other creatures of phantasm and wonder? Certain of their existence, he found what he went looking for. It both thrilled and horrified him.

Vampires, werewolves, creatures of darkness and those who bend the powers of the universe to their own will. The world was populated by monsters far stranger than his long-lived race.

And just as he had found the beasts, he found the ones who hunted them. The Chosen Ones, the Slayers. People, more often nubile young maidens on the cusp of womanhood, who could draw upon the chaos of nature and realign that power into both a beacon and a weapon.

They were powerful, but by themselves they were vulnerable. They needed a mentor, someone who could hone their natural talents into a skilled arsenal.

Buffy wasn't the first one he had trained, but she showed the greatest potential. And he thought, the greatest capacity for understanding. Couldn't she see that he was no threat to her? Surely she hadn't mistaken him for another monster from the Hellmouth?

Giles reached for his glasses out of habit only to find them missing. They must have fallen off when he struck the floor. He found them after some effort wedged between his desk and the wall. The lenses were cracked. Another casualty of the evening.

With a start, Giles remembered his rendezvous with Ryan. He consulted his pocket watch to find it had miraculously survived the fall. The time of his meeting had come and gone. Ryan would be coming for him, then. They must not meet here in the library. It struck Giles as sacrilege to defile the knowledge of the ages, not to mention his special cache of books in the back of the stacks.

Squaring his shoulders and tidying his suit as best he could, Giles turned to the desk to retrieve his sword.

It wasn't there.

Giles blinked, at a loss where it could have gotten to. Had Buffy taken it with her? Whatever for?

And then it all came tumbling into place. Buffy hadn't killed him on purpose; she had only meant to put him out of commission, knowing he would recover. And she had done it so she could face Ryan herself. His blood ran chill. Buffy was in real danger. She didn't know the first thing about fighting an Immortal, and Ryan was a seasoned killer.

He ran all the lights in town on his headlong dash to the rendezvous and Richie Ryan. He only hoped he'd be in time.


	14. Chapter 14

Richie opened his eyes on a vision of death. An unfamiliar sword seemed to hang Damocles-fashion over his head. He yelped and threw himself to the side. Or tried to.

That's when he discovered he was pegged out like a bug on a lab table waiting to be dissected. He thrashed like a maniac, giving in to panic, but the bonds held. He was done for this time.

"Hey! Get me out of this!" he bellowed, rising up as far as his bonds would allow. The view it afforded him stopped his blood in his heart. He was smack in the middle of the cemetery. Holy ground.

The cold, hard surface beneath his shoulder blades was tangible proof. He broke into a sweat.

"Giles!" he screamed, straining at the ropes. He could barely sense the other Immortal, receiving the telltale tingle at the base of his brain as though it came through a blanket of cotton wool. "Are you mad?! This is holy ground!" He was shouting himself hoarse.

"Giles isn't coming."

He stopped thrashing to stare at a familiar pair of boots. He followed them upward until he had a truncated view of the teenage knockout who had knocked him out. She stood above his head, casually resting her hand on the pommel of the sword.

She must be the source of the feeling he was getting. What was she, then—a pre-Immortal? But that didn't explain her super human strength and fighting skills. She must be something new. A kissing cousin to an Immortal. Close enough to bring on a Quickening—?

"Listen, whoever you are—" he began testily.

"My name is Buffy. I'm the Slayer," she said, glancing over her shoulder to an unseen companion. "Is that right?"

"Yes," said the sweet voice of the pixie. "It says here they exchange names."

"Okay," said the knockout, smiling prettily down at him. "Your turn."

"You've got to listen to me," Richie said very carefully, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking. "This is Holy Ground."

"You said that already. Not interested." Then, to be polite, she added, "But if you want a few minutes to prepare yourself—"

"No, you idiot." Richie was losing it. Carefully, he clamped down on his temper again. "I'm sorry. But you've got to listen to me—" He had to make her understand. He couldn't believe he'd gotten himself into this situation. He had no idea what would happen if she struck off his head on holy ground, but it wasn't going to be pleasant. The last days of Pompeii came to mind.

Ignoring his pleas, she pulled the sword out of the ground and walked around to his right side. "Time's up," she said. "Are you going to tell me your name or aren't you?"

"Wait. Please. You're making a horrible mistake—" He pulled desperately at the rope holding his right hand. If he could just get one hand free—

"Okay," she said, kneeling beside him. She laid the sword on the ground, inches from his straining fingers. "We can do this the hard way."

She went through his pockets, coming up with his wallet. "Here we go," she said, coming to his driver's license. "'Ryan, Richard. Seacouver, Washington.' You're a long way from home, Richard Ryan." She closed the wallet and laid it beside him on the gravestone.

"I prefer Richie," he said, trying another rack. "And you're Buffy? Nice to meet you." He smiled weakly. "If you'll just untie—"

She was picking up the sword and getting to his feet. Flexing her muscles and psyching herself up for the blow. He recognized the routine, having gone through it himself dozens of times in the recent past.

Richie swallowed hard, letting his pride go down with the lump in his throat. There were some things even bigger than Richie Ryan.

"All right," he said, letting his breath out slowly. "You win. I surrender. I'm sorry I came after your friend. It won't happen again."

Buffy paced from his head to his foot, getting pumped.

"You can have my head," he said, pulling out all the stops. "I won't fight. I won't run." He tried to catch her eye, but she wasn't looking at him.

"Buffy! Look at me!" He was practically begging.

She cocked her head at him, gracing him with a sidelong glance. He was too much like Angel for comfort. Light where the vampire was dark, but with the same air of controlled menace. Chaos in a fragile bottle. The air fairly vibrated around him, giving her a headache.

"For God's sake, Buffy, don't do it here. Not on holy ground. Please." He whispered the last word.

Bound and supine at her feet, he was pleading for his life, but he didn't care. He had to get through to her. And if that's what it took—

His voice quavered. "You have no idea what will happen if you take my head."

"I'll bite," she said, tossing her head. "What will happen?"

Richie had no idea. "I don't know," he said weakly. "But—but it will be apocalyptic."

"Uh-huh. Sorry," she said, sounding sincere. "But I can't take the chance you won't come after Giles. He is my teacher and I have to protect him."

What a horrible twist of fate. Richie would have killed to protect Duncan too—or died for him if it had come to that—until a few short months ago. A part of his soul resonated with her sentiments.

But then she seemed to think of something else, and scowled. "Anyway, I can't let you go. You killed poor old Mr. Tompkins, and he never did anything to you. You're a menace to the whole community."

"You don't understand." It was hopeless trying to defend his actions to her. "It's what we do," he finished feebly.

"Well, it's not what Giles does." There was pride in her voice.

What a cock-up he'd made of his life. Bitter gall constricted his throat.

"What's the next part, Willow?" she asked the pixie.

Willow. Pretty name. He knew an Ashley once, and a Rowan. He could collect the whole grove—he shook his head, trying desperately to stay focused. This was no time to run away and hide, the street scrapper in him shouted. He had to think of something.

"It says that funny phrase again. But it doesn't make any sense." Willow sounded confused.

"Just read it to me," Buffy said, drawing herself up. "I can repeat it by rote."

Then he felt the real thing—the approach of another Immortal. Here on holy ground, and close enough to catch his Quickening even if this Slayer couldn't. The die was cast for catastrophe.

"Buffy, no! For chrissake—!" Richie threw himself at the ropes, twisting almost double. If he had been a wild animal, he might have gnawed his own leg off. Tears of frustration blurred his vision.

"It isn't long," said Willow, raising her voice to be heard over the noise he was making. "There can be only one!"

Richie howled one last "No!" The cords on his neck stood out like ropes.

"'There can be only one,'" Buffy intoned the words of ritual dutifully, raising the sword high above her head.

The blade began its descending arc…


	15. Chapter 15

Giles found the abandoned bike outside the gates to the cemetery, but no Ryan.

He must be inside. Perhaps he changed his mind, Giles thought brightly, and didn't want his head anymore. Perhaps he only wanted to talk. Why come to holy ground otherwise?

But where was Buffy? She took the sword—she must have come after Ryan with it. Then a thought too horrible to consider occurred to him. What if Buffy fought an Immortal on holy ground—and took his head? With her similar power source, would she trigger a Quickening? Giles had always wondered, but this was not the place to test his theory.

No, the idea was too absurd. Buffy simply hadn't connected with Ryan yet. He was in time. But sadly, without his sword. Well, it couldn't be helped. He had to get Ryan to leave Sunnydale, and if his own head was the price, then he'd have to pay it. The Chosen One had to be protected.

The moon illuminated a path through the cemetery, and Giles took it, hoping for the best. Ryan might be reasonable. The path wound through the headstones, taking him up a slight incline. He passed a mound of freshly dug earth just as he sensed the other Immortal. Voices drifted toward him. One of them was Ryan's and the other was—

"Buffy?" he called, quickening his pace, his ears straining for the clash of steel. His heart leapt into his mouth at the prospect, but the only sounds he could make out were voices raised in argument.

Oh God, let me be in time, he prayed. Don't let Ryan harm her…

Then he heard a cry to curdle his blood, followed by the words he never hoped to hear again—

"There can be only one."

"No!" He echoed Ryan's cry, running headlong up the path like a berserker at Ragnarok.

Giles crested the rise and assessed the scene in an instant. His sword was already swinging for Ryan's neck. No time for a warning. He dove for Buffy, tackling her in his best broken field form, sweeping her off the ground. He reached for his sword, but it went flying from Buffy's grasp.

It was still on a trajectory for Ryan's neck, and it only veered slightly from its intended course. The force drove the blade point-first into Ryan's chest. The strangest sound erupted from the young Immortal's lips as he stared, transfixed, at the haft protruding from his heart.

To their utter amazement, Richie Ryan died laughing.


	16. Chapter 16

_Epilogue_

Richie came back to life with a violent shock. That was his first; his second was finding himself alive at all. Why hadn't Giles taken his head, once his body was off holy ground? Richie would have—

Or would he? The gnawing hunger for revenge in the pit of his stomach wasn't there anymore. It had been sated.

The day was full of surprises. Richie didn't think he could take another one. But he opened his eyes on a third.

He was flat on his back on a hard surface, untethered this time, surrounded by shelves of books. A library, and he was lying on a reading table.

The librarian sat on a chair nearby, cleaning his sword.

Oh. Okay, Richie thought. So he wants me awake for the ceremony. Richie couldn't blame the man; he'd been quite a hard ass himself for some time now. He supposed it was only his just desserts.

At least the nightmares would be over. He just wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep. But he couldn't.

Richie had watched many an Immortal give up his Quickening, in the few short years he'd lived with Mac, and afterward. Some went with grace, others railed or curse their fate. The worse of them begged. Richie wouldn't die like that.

He sat up slowly, taking care so his body wouldn't betray him. He flexed muscles in turn. Everything seemed to be working. Lastly, he lowered his feet to the floor, leaning on the table for support while his legs stopped shaking.

Giles watched his progress with a look of mild amusement. Well, he could laugh. He had the sword. Richie could handle it.

"Okay," he said, when he knew his voice wouldn't crack. "I'm ready."

Giles stopped polishing his sword. "Oh," he said, blinking. "Very well. But I thought we might have a little conversation first."

Richie hated long-winded harangues, but it was Giles' show. He shrugged, perching on the table. "Is this going to take long?"

Giles cleared his throat. "No, of course not. Not if you're in a hurry. Hm, well." He looked around vaguely. "I, uh, thought the others might hear what I have to say. Let me just—

Richie jerked his head up as that tingle-through-cotton-wool feeling hit him again.

"Ah, Buffy, Willow, Xander." Giles nodded as the three teenagers from the cemetery entered the library. "Our guest is awake again."

This was getting too weird for Richie. Giles wanted witnesses to a Quickening? "Uh, don't let me tell you how to run your business," he said, hooking a chair and putting a foot on the seat. "But shouldn't this be a private party?"

"Oh, I have no secrets from these three."

Apparently not. The teens pulled up chairs like scouts at a campfire and settled in to hear scary stories. They were understandably fascinated by the large blood stain on Richie's chest.

"Does it hurt?" Xander asked, unable to contain himself.

"Only when I laugh," Richie said, resigned to the ordeal. When he thought of the end, he never pictured it like this.

"Ah, well." The librarian put his sword on the desk behind him and rose to give his lecture. "Something quite unimaginable almost happened tonight. Something that might have cracked the Hellmouth wide open. A truly cataclysmic occurrence."

The youngsters were suitably impressed. Richie had lost him already. "The Hellmouth?"

Giles looked uncomfortable. "It would really take too long to explain the vernacular to you, Ryan, but I think you get the gist of what would have happened."

Richie supposed he did. Hell, the Apocalypse, the end of the world as he knew it. It didn't really matter what you called it. He was just glad it hadn't happened.

"But I don't understand, Giles," Buffy said. "What's so special about this holy ground of yours? You never mentioned it before." She turned a cool gaze at Richie. "And why couldn't I kill him for you?" She smiled sweetly. "It's what I do."

Richie shivered. This one gave him the willies. And three broken ribs.

"Because it's just against the rules," Giles answered her question like a teacher. 'No one can interfere in a fight between Immortals. And for an Immortal to lose his head on holy ground—"

"Okay, Giles," Xander said. "We get that it's a bad idea."

"A major bad idea," Willow piped in. "I sort of got the ritual backwards," she said, looking chagrined. "Any place _but_ holy ground. I think Mt. St. Helens sort of describes it."

"Or Krakatoa," Buffy said.

"Or Mt. Pinatubo," Xander added. "What? I can't keep up with current events?"

Richie rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm dead already and this is Hell…"

Giles was talking again. "I owe you three an explanation, I think. You never would have gotten into this present difficulty, if it hadn't been for my, um, peculiar pedigree."

"You don't owe us anything," Buffy said. "Except maybe three passes for first period tomorrow."

"That's right," said Willow, brightly. "We like you just the way you are—whatever that is."

"Yeah, what is that, exactly?" Xander asked.

"That's Giles' business," Buffy cut in before her teacher could answer the question. "And he doesn't have to tell us right now, if he doesn't want to."

"Your faith in me is reassuring," the librarian said, preparing to elaborate.

Richie broke in before Giles had a chance to go on. "Listen, I understand you all have a lot to say to each other, but couldn't it wait until I'm gone? I'd rather not have to listen to it." He had as much nerve as the next guy, but even his will had its limits.

"I'm sorry." Giles removed his spare pair of glasses and began polishing them. 'This is rather awkward. But I can understand your urgency." He replaced his glasses and fixed Richie with a stern gaze.

Richie straightened his spine. Here it comes.

"I must ask you for your solemn word that you will not harm anyone in this town, mortal or otherwise, before you leave. I really must insist."

"Leave?" Richie didn't understand. Was Giles letting him go? All of a sudden, he was glad to be sitting down.

"Leave!" Buffy seemed to understand all too well. "You can't let him leave here, Giles! He'll just come back and take your head!"

"I think I can trust him if he gives me his word—"

Buffy tossed her head. "You're too trusting, trust me. The world is full of monsters—no offense there, Giles—and you can't assume just 'cause one of them gives you his word that its worth anything—" The other two jumped into the fray, everyone speaking at once.

"Yes."

Maybe it was the close call he'd had on holy ground. Worrying about something else besides himself had awakened feelings in Richie he thought were dead. He didn't want to destroy every Immortal who crossed his path anymore—just one Immortal in particular. And maybe not even him.

The pain was still there, but it was a manageable size. A headache instead of a migraine. Something he could learn to live with.

The others stopped their bickering. "What did you day?" asked Willow.

"I said you have my word," Richie said with more conviction, getting to his feet. "If you'll accept it." He held out his hand for Giles to accept.

"I'd be honored," the older Immortal said, taking Richie's hand and shaking it solemnly.

"Ah," said Xander, breaking the spell. "A Kodak moment."

"Okay, guys," said Buffy. "You've kissed and made up. But what about Mr. Tompkins? Or did you forget he chopped the old guy's head off?"

Richie looked uncomfortable, but it was Giles who picked up the ball. "That has nothing to with anyone else."

There was a chorus of "Huh?"s.

"That was Immortal business," Giles said. "Tompkins was a player in the Game and he knew the rules. 'There can be only one.' It can never leave this room."

He fixed each of them with a stare. "I want _your_ word on it."

"Yeah."

"Yes, Giles."

"Okay, fine."

Three versions of the same reply.

"Just like Slayer business," Buffy added, putting it in perspective for them all.

"Good." Giles looked uncomfortable for having raised his voice. "Then we never have to talk about it again."

"Lips sealed," Buffy said, mimicking a key in a lock. "Or do you want a blood oath?"

Giles felt the back of his head nervously and glanced at Richie's shirt front. "I think there's been enough blood shed for one lifetime, thank you."

Richie fingered his shirt. It felt like cardboard. "I hear you," he said. Any number of lifetimes.

"So, Giles," he said, flashing a brilliant smile that transformed his whole face for just an instant, drawing a sigh from Willow. "What do you know about Dark Quickenings?"

Giles' face drained of color. "That's the, um, crisis that happened with your teacher?"

Richie ran his hand across his ultra short hair, feeling suddenly vulnerable. But he sensed in Giles a quality he used to take for granted in Duncan. He shrugged, looking rueful.

"Ah, well, let's see," Giles said, removing his glasses. "I may have a book that pertains to that subject."

Richie watched Giles disappear into the stacks, then turned to face the tombstone trio. They made him more than a little nervous, if only for their extreme mundanity. They didn't look like cold blooded killers, but he had the hole in his shirt to prove it. What their game was he didn't even want to speculate.

Buffy sidled forward, with a smile that probably melted hearts on a regular basis. It made Richie's skip a beat, but that was probably residual terror.

"So," he said, mentally estimating the number of strides to the exit. "Are we square?"

"Sure," Buffy said, tossing her head in a cascade of blonde layers. "As long as you're on the level about Giles."

Richie spread his fingers in a gesture of truce. "Absolutely."

"Good," she said, lowering her _ki_. Richie found he'd been holding his breath.

The others took this as acceptance and crowded in. They were understandably curious.

"So, you die and come back to life again," Xander said. "Kind of like a video game with unlimited lives."

"You could look at it that way," Richie supposed. If you totally ignored the concept of pain.

"And you'll always be nineteen?" Willow's awestruck expression made the idea sound like perfection.

Privately, Richie would have preferred topping out at twenty-five, but to a bunch of sixteen-year-olds, he must seem plenty old. Just try signing a contract, or getting insurance, with a perpetually youthful face. But he didn't say that.

"It must be harsh," Buffy said, when the game of twenty questions wound down. "Having your teacher turn on you like that. I can't imagine Giles doing anything to hurt me."

Richie didn't want to disillusion the kid. "Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting it from Mac either." Funny. He could talk about Mac now without jumping out of his skin. Maybe there was hope for his sanity after all.

Giles returned from the stacks with an armload of books, and the teens reluctantly peeled off for their respective homes and bed. The two Immortals read and talked into the morning.

Richie started to get a few things straight in his head. Like denial. And acceptance. And maybe even forgiveness. It wouldn't come overnight, but it might come one day. And he began to see something else.

The whole world wasn't out to get Richie Ryan. Some people were still willing to befriend him.

It was time to grow up. Time to move on. Time to stop picking fights with Duncan stand-ins and face his demon head on.

It was time to go home.


End file.
